Black Cars
by johnsarmylady
Summary: John is getting on with his life...if only he didn't see black cars everywhere! A short Post Reichenbach tale in 221B style, Rated T for safety.
1. Two Years

******Disclaimer: Don't own, don't profit, just play a while...**

Black cars.

How John hated black cars.

Every day, at some point he would be looking out of a window, or crossing a road, or walking home and he would see it- the black car.

Most days it would just sit in his peripheral vision, but occasionally it would glide alongside him or pull up outside the hospital, and the door would open for him to get inside.

Once, just once, he refused. He woke up next morning to find Mycroft standing over him, looking sternly down as he lectured the doctor about being sociable.

John was gobsmacked. Sociable? If he hadn't been half asleep he would have returned the diatribe with interest, but by the time he had shaken the somnolence from his brain the interfering git had gone, promising to see John soon.

All in all, two years on John felt he was coping well. He had his job at St Mary's, and gave the occasional lecture in field trauma surgery at Guy's Hospital medical school. He had moved back into 221B, and had even made his peace with Greg Lestrade. Time hadn't healed, but in a small way he had made his peace with his fate. Yes, he was coping well.

But still the black cars haunted him. Their presence had the ability to make John's day bad.


	2. November Wind

Peering out at the dark and rain swept streets John shivered and cupped his hands around his mug, sipping the hot brew, lost in thought.

The shrill pinging of his phone alarm brought him back into the present, reminding him of the time, that he should be getting ready for work.

Within the hour he was walking along Marylebone Road, head down against the November wind and rain, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his new winter coat- a necessity now that he could no longer justify travelling by cab. Today he might have welcomed the sight of a black car... wasn't it typical that there wasn't one to be found.

A fairly routine day was rounded off by a major RTC on the Westway Flyover during the busy rush hour requiring all available medical staff to attend. Despite it coming at the end of John's shift he moved seamlessly from A&E to emergency triage, putting to good use all the skills he had learned in Afghanistan.

It was nearly midnight when he finally pulled his coat on, and bidding his colleagues a weary goodnight he walked out of the building to find a sleek black car parked at the kerbside. The rear door swung open and this time, with a resigned yet grateful sigh, he clambered into the back.

**A/N: an RTC is a Road Traffic Collision, and the description is used for the smallest car crash to the multi-vehicle pile ups. A Major RTC would be nearer the latter description.**


	3. Familiar House

John must have dozed during the journey, for he woke with a start as the black car was pulling up outside a large and vaguely familiar house. Rubbing his face with both hands he tried to pull himself together as he waited for the uniformed driver to walk around and open the rear door for him.

His puzzlement regarding the house was solved when the door opened and Anthea stood in the light from the hallway, her ever present Blackberry in her hand. Wordlessly she showed him into a warm well-furnished room, with a tray of tea and food set out on a nearby table.

Mycroft's personal assistant smiled and closed the door, leaving John to wonder why he had been brought here. He sat and waited, pouring himself a cup of tea and helping himself to a sandwich- after all, he had hardly eaten all day, and if Mycroft was of a mind to play games he could at least feed his opponent.

When he finished his tea, John had more or less decided to go looking for his elusive host when soft footsteps approached the door and he looked at it expectantly. It opened, but the man stepping across the threshold was not the auburn-haired embodiment of the British Government- this man had curls, and those curls were black.


	4. Fleeting Thought

As the familiar figure stepped into the room, John felt his heart hammering so hard it seemed it would burst out of his chest. He had slowly risen to his feet, but his legs threatened to collapse under him.

For a long moment the two men stood in silence, drinking in the sight of each other, one in shock, the other in relief.

Taking a slow, hesitant step towards the tall apparition John raised a hand, reaching forward to place his splayed fingers on the warm chest, feeling the steady thud of the heart caged within the ribs, the beat slightly elevated.

Closing the gap Sherlock reached out, his arms wrapping around his friend, pulling him close, telling him without words all that his friendship had meant to him. And standing in that embrace it never once occurred to John to proclaim his heterosexuality, while the fleeting thought that he would like to deck the wonderfully alive consulting detective it was just that, a fleeting thought, dismissed as soon as it arrived under a wave of thankfulness.

There would be time for recriminations, but for now there was a black car waiting outside to take them home.

Home.

Both of them had suspiciously moist eyes as they left the house, John climbing without hesitation into the car, with Sherlock following behind.


	5. Black Cars

Phoning in to the hospital, John arranged a week's leave. They were unfazed, he was long overdue a break.

Sitting either side of the crackling fire the two friends talked, one releasing the pent up anger and despair he had lived with for two years, the other explaining, giving his reasons, offering his apologies.

There were questions, each man craved knowledge of how the other had lived, and if Sherlock had been both horrified and saddened to hear how John had suffered it was nothing to the frisson of fear and pain that rippled through John as, in a no holds barred account of his travels, the younger man told his tale.

It was a tale of traps and of capture, of hiding and fighting and sometimes, when every other option was closed to him, of killing. It was also a tale of loneliness, of cheap boarding houses and a longing to return to Baker Street.

As the week progressed John found the old hurts were now nothing more than bruises on his soul, and Sherlock discovered that, despite everything he had said and done before the fall, his one friend remained true.

Now, with normality restored, they acknowledged that the next black car they willingly climbed into would be a London taxi, and in it their next adventure would begin.

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who read, favourited, followed or reviewed my first five-chapter story with absolutely no dialogue whatsoever! You people are wonderful!**


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